EL VENADO

The Hunter and His Son

A mirror of water drew still across the land. Deep it went with cool gestation holding life little known to those above. It was a still world filled with velvet motion slipping carelessly, yet never once disturbing its surface. Only foreign vibrations disturbed this cool world as two giants walked by carrying with them strange sticks. Four legged creatures sniffed round them picking up pace when a sent was recognized. It soon dawned on them this quiet forest would be deafened with sound for only a moment before drawing back into still normality once more.

The hunter and his son followed cautiously behind their four hounds. A heavy rain had come the night before turning the land into a wet brown mush and the hunter knew well a silly misstep could mean their lives. His son, on the other hand, was young and much too excited with the world to think of death as something that could ever touch him. He followed the hunter as quickly and a stealthy as he could, but the rifle he carried turned out to be heavier than expected. Even then he went on with prowess not wanting to disappoint his well-regarded father who had made a name for himself purely by skill. So often people said what a shame it would be to see the hunting gift did not run in the family.

Green waves of moist life pierced the ground to reach the sky. Around them, nature bloomed in wild glory, but it was the color red which these men hunted for. With a slip of the foot atop a hidden rock, the son fell into a pool of mud. The hunter turned, his face as still as the water, his eyes telling him what to do. Get up, they said. Honor my name and make me proud. The boy rose gripping the rifle while the earth gripped him. In the end, his human ambition overthrew the need of the earth. The hounds looked back at the sound of the fall but quickly went back to their matters. When one picked up sent, the rest soon followed.

It was a rabbit trail. Small and wet with freshly made tracks one after the other. The boy smiled and quickened towards it, but his father's strong hand blocked him back. Too small a victory, his arm told him. Honor my name and make me proud. They kept on going but the hounds stayed back to sniff the trail.

The trees breathed in poison and blew out air. Fresh and cold and crisp. The hunter turned, and his son knew to look as well. Between the bushes and trees stood a deer disturbing the calm of the lake with quick quiet sips. His father's hands came round him and positioned the rifle into place. Kill it, he meant. Honor my name and make me proud. What a shame it would be to see the hunting gift did not run in the family. The son closed one eye the way he'd seen his father do. Honor was heavier than he'd expected but it made no matter now. The deer was far but not too far and he spotted then what his father hadn't taught.

Brown, the color of life. Red, the color of death. A single second passed and the weight of the gun trembled his arms. Kill it. The deer stayed still by the lake. Its black eyes laid soft atop the water. Its white tail wiggled in the air. Make me proud. His hand clasped round the trigger and dripped with morning dew. He could do it if he didn't think. He could do it if he closed both eyes. He could do it if he forgot to breathe. He could do it–but not for him. Honor my name. He didn't want to do it, but that was not something he wanted to realize now. What a shame it would be to see the killing gift did not run in the family. The rifle was heavier than expected, but it mattered now.

A deafening sound invaded the forest for only a moment before drawing back into still normality once more. You have shamed me, the bullet said as it shrieked by. When he opened his eyes, the deer laid flat across the earth. Red, his father hadn't told him the blood would be black.

From between two rocks, a demon came to dance. Go to him, his father's eyes said once more. Honor my name and make me proud. 

What a shame it would be for people to find the hunting gift did not run in the family. 

 -Impreso en los talleres Fabela. Historia por Pablo Camejo.